


Hey You

by stinkytooth



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate to Love, Love/Hate, Murkoff Corporation, Rivalry, Slow Burn, The Murkoff Account, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26769361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stinkytooth/pseuds/stinkytooth
Summary: After being wrongly fired from her previous job, Molly Ambrose is looking to kick-start her career as a private investigator. When she is tasked with investigating Murkoff executive, Richard Trager, she becomes exposed to dangers that she didn't know existed.[on a hiatus, so thank you for your patience;;]
Relationships: Richard Trager/Original Character(s), Richard Trager/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is highly appreciated my friends!! i love hearing what you guys think. every little comment, kudos, or even hit means the world to me ❤️❤️❤️❤️
> 
> and yes i did name this fic after the song by pink floyd. it slaps ok.

The Lieutenant said he wouldn’t take up too much of her time—and he was true to his word. Not in Molly Ambrose’s four years of service was she in and out of his office in five minutes. It felt like a joke, a prank plotted by her former co-workers, and she was ready to throw it right back in their face, but when she had looked over her shoulder as she left the station, no one looked back. 

“Well, I don’t want to work with you fuckers anymore either,” Ambrose thought out loud as she drove. Her hand lowered to lie at her side, leaving the left one to grip the steering wheel as she stared at the empty road ahead of her.

No one was present to listen, except the forgotten cigarette burn on the passenger’s seat. When a new opportunity arose, it felt impossible to sit still, to have patience; it was even more difficult to stop herself from blurting out whatever thought came to mind—whether there were people around to listen or not.

Ambrose switched what hand held the steering wheel to roll down the window. Every time she did, it took awhile; it squeaked, it creaked, it barely did its job. The car was almost as old as her; a classic Toyota Corolla from ‘89.

_I’m only in my twenties and I still feel old._

She kept the window half cracked, and released a euphoric sigh when the wind blew back her hair, a faded brown mop, and continued to speak to herself. 

“He said it was going to be ‘easy’ and then gave me a file as flat as my chest. Easy, Lieutenant? Easy? I’m driving to the middle of buttfuck nowhere in the Colorado mountains, to try to find dirt on… this guy—” she paused, then reached her hand over to the file in the passenger’s seat, flipping it open and flashing a quick glance at the name. “Richard Trager. That’s right.”

As Ambrose clicked her tongue, pulling her hand away from the folder, her phone emitted a sharp, abrupt _ding_. Without picking it up, she lowered her gaze and read the message as it rested on the surface just above the gear shift. It was from Lieutenant Martin:

_You know that I can hear you, right, kiddo?_

“Oh shit,” she muttered, shaking her head and knowingly tapped the center of her chest where she hid the mic. “My bad, Lieutenant,” she finished. After a few seconds, another message came through: _No worries._

Ambrose laughed, adding, “I’ll try to keep my thoughts to myself.”

When she aimed her eyes back towards the road, she spotted the asylum. It seemed like it was waiting for her, and from a distance it looked serene and limpid. But Molly knew that once she stepped foot through the front door, the asylum would breathe. The truth, the depravity, would introduce itself. A company that's stripped from the nearest civilization was already an eyebrow raiser, not to mention the reputation that Murkoff already had. 

As the asylum crept closer and closer, her concentration faltered, and she lightly hit herself in the face a couple times, hoping by some miracle the Lieutenant couldn’t hear her. She briefed the instructions in her head. 

_You’re Hayden Sinclair. You’re here to apply for a part time position as an orderly._

The brief alias introduction gifted by the Lieutenant was too plain for Molly, too vague, so she took it upon herself to spice up the story: her mother would also be sick, explaining why she needed a part-time position. Since her mother suffered from mental illness as well, it encouraged her to pursue an occupation where she could help other people as she helped her mother. She doubted that the white collar assholes would even listen or empathize with the situation, but it was well worth it to her. Maybe a sweet nurse or someone of the like would be moved by her story. 

It was fake, but touching. And that’s all that mattered. 

Ambrose took a sharp turn onto the dirt road that led to the asylum. In a messy gesture, she kept her eyes fixed ahead while feeling around the passenger’s seat to close the file shut. She inched toward the asylum, and after taking another soft right turn, she pulled up to the gate.

On her right, there was a very small building, if you could even call it that. It was almost all glass, with a camera aimed straight at her. The security guard sat at the desk, shifting his gaze from the computer screens to her. Before he could move, Molly reached across again and snatched the file, shoving it underneath the passenger’s seat.

As the security guard approached the passengers seat window, she rolled it down halfway again. 

"How can I help you?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion. 

"I'm here for an interview," she answered with a subtle smile, only letting her lips curl up to a certain point. If he was suspicious of her motives, he didn't get paid enough to care, because he turned on his heel to go let her in.

Ambrose nodded at him, even though he didn't bother to look back at her, and after rolling up her window, she turned her chin down and mumbled into the mic, "He didn't even hesitate. It'll be smooth sailing from here."

The gravel road turned into solid cement once the gate closed behind her. Ambrose thought about how fitting the name Mount Massive was—it was much taller in person compared to the pictures she saw, and quite honestly, it was scarier up close. It was unsettling how the employees loitered on the steps and stared as she kept right in the roundabout, turning into the only other open gate.

Trying to shake off their eyes, Molly maneuvered her way through the packed parking lot, finally reaching an empty spot at the very end, a tight squeeze on the left. After turning off the engine, she made sure anything suspicious was cleared out of sight, grabbed her bag, wondering if they were going to search it. It's not as if they would find anything incriminating... but the gum wrappers, half empty carton of cigarettes, mint mouth spray, little orange bottle of adderall, loose change, crumpled up receipts and many more would reflect badly on her character.

She stepped out of the car, locked it, and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She stopped by her house before to change into proper interview attire. To keep a low profile and blend in, Ambrose settled on dark slacks, a white button up shirt, a beige sweater over it, and white slip ons. She should have pulled her hair back into a bun or even just half up for the sake of being professional, but decided to tuck the loose strands behind her ears to suffice. 

The walk to the front doors felt prolonged, and stretched out. Her eyes fell into a pattern of glancing at her feet, and glancing back up again. Would staring back at the employees come off as... _too_ assertive? Suspiciously assertive? Molly knew it was wise to prepare for the worst, so she indeed looked back at them, but smiled gently as she had done with the security guard. 

She blended in. She looked harmless. The clean-cut, simple attire was not only the right choice, but the best choice. 

When she smiled at them, some smiled back. Others turned away, ignoring her. And at the point where she reached the double doors, another security guard was leaving. As he passed by Ambrose, he looked at her, and frowned slightly. She felt his eyes seething into the back of her neck—but she pretended not to notice, managed to grab one of the handles of the door before it completely shut, weaselling her way through having to press the intercom for admission.

"Told you," she muttered into the mic. "Good luck."

As tempting as it was to admire the tall ceilings, the old structure and style of the building, Ambrose walked straight up to the front desk, where the third security guard she had seen was sitting. The guard was hyper focused on some black text on his computer screen, until she spoke up. 

"Hi," she said, smiling. "I'm here for an interview. This is where I check in, I assume?"

He glanced up, then replied, "We're not hiring."

_Shit._

"Oh... really? That's not what I was told on the phone."

The guard narrowed his eyes—but Ambrose had a poker face, a calm voice. A collected appearance. She thought to herself that she had wasted her potential by not being an actress. "I scheduled an interview. Maybe they just forgot to add me to the calendar?" she suggested. 

He looked around the lobby, as if he thought Molly couldn't see him, and turned back to her. "There aren't any interviews scheduled. If you still want a job, call us and leave a message."

"I can't schedule one now?" she asked, the smile reflecting in her voice. "Since you're the receptionist, shouldn't I be talking to you?"

Through the mic, Lieutenant Martin grew apprehensive at Ambrose's tone. It wasn't cocky, per se, but a little too confident. A little _too_ prideful. Relieved that she couldn't hear his reaction, he sighed heavily, bowing his head as if in prayer.

 _Don't get too bold, kid,_ he thought.

Molly didn't know this, but Lieutenant Martin pulled off of a dirt road, a mere mile from Mount Massive. There was an open field that led to the mountains. Just at where a dirt road ended, he parked in place, towered over by the trees. Now he could listen in peace. 

Molly raised her eyebrows at the security guard after still not receiving an answer. His blank stare started to falter as he shifted in his seat.

"Listen," he began, his tone oddly aggressive. "I'm busy right now. Just leave and call back when—"

Ambrose waited for the guard to finish, but a chipper voice from behind her interrupted him. _"—_ You're not turning away a potential employee, are ya, buddy?"

Molly tilted her head at the look of shock on the guard's face, then looked behind her to see who interrupted him. Although her arms were still crossed, she pulled off the same subtle grin out of the sake of being polite. The man behind her returned the smile, only his was much more expressive, and Molly felt a quiver in her stomach when he looked her up and down. 

"No, Mr. Trager," the guard answered. 

_Oh, great,_ Ambrose thought. _This is him._

Her hand protectively raised up to grab the handle of her bag, but loosened her grip when Trager's eyes followed her movement. 

"The welcome desk didn't seem very _welcoming_ , if you ask me," Trager continued, shooting the guard a look. "Why don't you brainstorm some new tactics while I take this young lady back for an interview. How's that sound, buddy?"

He could be playing a game. He could be serious. And he could also see this as an opportunity to take advantage of her. Since it went against the Lieutenant's wishes, Ambrose didn't bring a firearm, but now she wished she had done it anyway. Just in case.

The guard nodded in agreement, and Trager removed the space between him and Molly as he approached her, holding out his hand. 

"Rick Trager."

"Hayden Sinclair, nice to meet you," Ambrose replied, shaking his hand briefly before dropping hers to her side. Either his grip was naturally tight, or he was trying to intimidate her. Once again, she ignored his forceful eye contact, and motioned her head in the direction of the elevator that was straight ahead. "This the direction we're heading in?"

"Now, how'd you know that?" he laughed. "Are you stalking me?"

Molly mirrored his wide smile, and once he strode ahead of her, it fell. She followed Trager to the elevator, moving up closer a couple paces so they were side by side. 

"You should know we don't hire criminals," he continued, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "With the exception of me."

_That's probably not far from the truth._

"Well, you can't be that bad," Molly commented. After casting a glance over her shoulder, she turned back to look at Trager right when he hit the button on the elevator. "You helped me out."

"Between you and me, buddy, that guy's just a prick," he paused, his shoulders back, hands held behind him. On his face lied a distant, unfocused smile. He looked down at her. "So—what kind of job are you looking for anyway? Are you in business? You seem like you'd be good in business, considering how you handled that little situation back there."

"Not business. I'm applying for an orderly position, part time."

"Then we won't be seeing each other too much," As it arrived, Trager opened the elevator door, which was an old fashioned gate, and motioned for Molly to go ahead. She stepped inside and he followed, shutting the gate. Before he could get to it, Ambrose let her hand hover over the button.

"How many floors up?" she asked.

"Just one," Trager watched her press the button, then focused his eyes back on her face. He leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Why part time? Are you in school or something?"

"No, not school," Once again, she mirrored Trager's movements and leaned against the other side of the wall. Since she didn't have pockets, she folded her hands behind. "My mom's sick—mentally _and_ physically," she smiled. "Which is why I want to work in a place like this."

"Ah, I see," As the elevator stopped at the second floor, Trager opened the door for Ambrose again, and neither of them spoke until he closed the gate. "So, today we're going to do things a little differently.”

"How so?"

"Well, normally my supervisor, Jeremy Blaire takes care of the interviews. He's busy at the moment, but, I know he wouldn't mind if I took over," Trager made a 'come here' gesture with his finger, then pointed at the door at the end of the hall. "Just a little further down this way."

As they drew closer, Ambrose looked into the room on the left. A plain, middle aged woman sat there, head down as they passed by. The brief silence let her thoughts fester, and the reality struck her hard enough to sting—she was here to investigate this man on account on sexual assault.

While Molly was apprehensive, it was exciting in a sick way; Lieutenant Martin knew who this man was, what he was capable of, and he trusted Ambrose enough to take care of him. 

"And here we are," Trager sighed with relief as he opened the door, sticking his foot out in front so it was propped open.

Ambrose approached the interior of the office the way that you would approach a snake if you didn't know if it was poisonous or not. It was tempting to let her hand flutter up to rub her neck, or shoulder. She had an itch to move a part of her body—instead, she stood her ground and turned around to face Trager.

"This is a nice space you got," Molly's eyes scanned the old walls. Some of the wallpaper was peeling at the corners where Trager probably thought no one looked, and the wood was clearly old and needed a bit of re-plastering.

"Glad you approve," he quipped.

Her focus fell on what was in front of her instead of analyzing the details, unintentionally ignoring Trager. There was a book on the right, titled RUNNER'S LIFE. A framed picture of a boat on the wall behind the desk. A pair of golf clubs leaned against the back wall.

_Okay, he's a runner, probably has a boat—or wants one—and plays golf, but what the fuck does that tell me?_

"You golf?" she asked, turning to look at him. He still lingered by the door, like a ghost with unfinished business. 

"Only when they let me go home," he chuckled. "What about you, buddy?"

"Mm, no," Although she wasn't smiling, a lightness swayed through her voice. "I never learned how to golf. I was into the other sports anyway."

"Oh, really?"

It could have been her personal bias, or perhaps a genuine expression, but Trager sounded impressed. Molly noticed that he had placed his grip back on the handle of the door, but it lowered to his side after she spoke.

"Yeah," she retorted. "Baseball, basketball, soccer... volleyball... sometimes swimming... I had a lot of energy to burn off as a kid."

"Ha! No kidding. Why not add golfing to the list? I can teach you," As Molly weighed the options of what to say in her head, as if she was trying to pick the right answer for a game show, Trager grabbed the handle of the door and without looking away, winked at her.

Initially she would have pursed her lips into the same civil grin, and that clear glimmer in her eyes would have created a barrier between realities. But she was going to be here awhile, so she supplied him with a glassy, dreamy perception through the way she gazed at him, and let her mouth open far enough to suggest that she was 'going to say something' but 'decided to take it back.' A jaw that goes slack insinuates vulnerability, or that was the case she had experienced—by opening your mouth you let the other person's oxygen cut into yours.

"Hey, you want some coffee?" Trager asked, pointing a thumb in the direction of where the second office was. "I'm gonna have a coffee."

"I'll take whatever you're having," Ambrose went to shove her hands into her pockets, then remembered there weren't any and played it off by flattening the back of her sweater, hands moving down her lower torso. She sat in one of the leather armchairs as Trager peeked his head outside the door and called down to the next room: _'Denise, be a buddy and get us some coffees.'_

Molly listened as the woman in the office replied— _yes, Mr. Trager_ —followed by Trager's frame appearing in Ambrose's peripheral vision, but he didn't linger. As he walked, he rapped his knuckles against the side of his desk, finally sitting down across from her. 

"Our coffees are on the way, so let's see that resume of yours."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, then reached into her bag and handed him the sheet of paper, which was only a little wrinkled. Ambrose had forgotten to go over the logistics again, but felt prepared to simply play along with whatever it said.

Trager leaned back in his chair, swiveling in it slightly, mindlessly. He mumbled under his breath as he skimmed the document, then set it on the table in front of him. 

"You've had quite a few jobs," For what felt like the first time, Trager didn't make a joke or side remark. Ambrose blamed it on the pressure of the situation, but he looked at her as if her skin was translucent—he witnessed the rattle of the bones, the drumming of the heart. Maybe he knew she was secretly terrified and masked the knowledge he held with a friendly tone. Maybe they were onto her tall tale, maybe security was approaching the office now, maybe Trager was stringing her along.

Ambrose swallowed. "I know that doesn't look good on a resume, but I've had to change jobs a lot. Because of mom, you know... there was always something going on," A second or so of silence passed, and Trager knew she had more to say, so he kept his eyes on her and folded his hands.

"Since I'll be working less than thirty hours a week," she continued. "That gives me more time to take care of mom and handle my own responsibilities... all while gaining experience of what it's like to work in an asylum," she laughed, coating the insincerity in her voice with thick wax. "Oh, and I forgot to mention... once I save up enough money, I'll be going back to school to get my nursing degree."

 _I sure hope it doesn't say otherwise,_ Molly thought, glancing down at the resume.

"I could tell you're a go-getter," Trager cracked a smile, leaning over and resting his elbows on the desk with his hands still folded. "You know, you could always work here someday. We always need more nurses."

"Thank you for the offer," Ambrose crossed one leg over the other, and Trager's gaze trailed along with her motion. The dim lighting made it difficult to see what color his eyes were; but they looked dark. "But it'll take a couple of years to finish my degree. And then I need to have at least two years of experience as a full time RN before they'll even consider letting me work in a psych unit."

"Hey, don't you worry about that. I can pull some strings. You know, they put me in charge so they have to listen to me—and being buddies with the big boss has its perks."

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt," she beamed with her mouth closed.

"I am serious about the job. You can take my word for it," After releasing a heavy sigh, Trager leaned back into his chair, and propped his elbows on both armrests. "Our world is different than it used to be, right, buddy? Business is always evolving, the standards are always changing, money discovers new intents and purposes, as you and I do... and hey, between us; everyone breaks the rules now and then. Sometimes the end—"

"—justifies the means," she finished.

"Atta girl. Now let me ask you an impromptu interview question: why don't you share an experience you've had where the end justifies the means," As he spoke, he watched her, eager for her reaction. "Seeing as we clearly have the same philosophies."

Molly opened her mouth, but Trager interrupted her, cheering, "Oh, look! Our coffees!" 

The middle aged woman, Denise, strode quietly up to the desk, setting a tray down that had two cups of coffee with a side for cream and sugar. Ambrose looked up at her, noticing that she was pregnant but didn't say anything, and thanked her for the coffee. The woman responded by barely looking back at Molly, nodded her head at Trager and leaving the room. 

"Thanks, buddy," he called out after his assistant left the room, then motioned for Ambrose to continue. "As you were saying," After pouring a splash of cream into his cup, he leaned back in his chair and took a drink. Ambrose mimicked his actions once more, ignoring the lingering bitter taste on her tongue, neglecting the little cup of sugar as it danced in front of her eyes.

"Honestly, Mr. Trager, I'm struggling to remember a situation—a good one anyway," she smiled and let a small huff of air out of her nose in a silent laugh.

"First thing that comes to mind."

 _Oh, Jesus Christ... come on,_ Molly thought.

"Well... as you know, my mom has had her struggles. Along with those struggles, and the responsibility I've always had over her, it forces you to make executive decisions. Decisions that you know others will disagree with, ones that they'll fight you against, but in the end..."

"It's justified."

"Exactly," she paused. "My mom has been in and out of quite a few psych units—and my family thought I was a monster for it, but I knew that it was the right thing to do. The problem isn't completely solved, not yet, but it's a start. And, yeah, things are tense with my family now. Perhaps I was a bit harsh at times... but I did what I had to do—and one day, they'll be grateful."

The phone on Trager's desk rang after she was done with her narrative, and when he picked it up, he wasn't on the line for long. He nodded a few times, muttered some confirmations, then hung up and looked back at her. "As much as I hate to cut our conversation short, Jer is on his way."

When he saw her confused expression, he laughed, then added, "Mr. Blaire, I mean." After rising from his seat, Trager stood up and walked to the door, which was still propped open.

Molly glanced over her shoulder as subtle as possible, and when she saw that Trager had stuck his head out of the door frame to spit more commands at Denise, she bent down to open her bag.

The bug that the Lieutenant gave her to plant in his office wasn't any bigger than a pea. In the few seconds of free thought that she was granted, Ambrose took initiative of the anecdote she preached no less than a minute ago—and made an executive decision when she leaned down and stuck the sticky side of the mic underneath the leather chair she sat in. Initially she thought it would be a good idea to place it underneath the desk, but the likelihood that Trager would find it if he dropped a pen, or an important document was high. Plus, once Molly began working there, she was planning on moving the position of the bug at least once a week, at the bare minimum.

By the time Molly sat back up again and rose from her seat, slinging her bag across her shoulder, the man who must have been Jeremy Blaire appeared in the doorway, greeting Trager with a smile and a handshake. Although Blaire possessed a shorter stature than Trager, they both carried themselves with a certain pride she suspected was artificial; after all, behind every tough, strong man was a scared little boy. Ambrose's father wasn't a good role model, but he had taught her that much.

However, Trager was adamant in his attempt to exude confidence. The bright pink button down he wore with the blue sweater tied over his shoulders was enough evidence to verify that theory. In her experience, most men, especially those in an authoritative position, would be embarrassed to even _wear_ pink. But not him. 

Trager motioned for Ambrose to come over, and once she did, he shifted his gesture towards his colleague. "Ms. Sinclair, this is Jeremy Blaire, Murkoff's executive vice president."

"Hayden Sinclair, nice to meet you," Ambrose replied while resisting the urge to pull her hand back quickly as soon as she shook Blaire's hand. It was safe to assume that Trager was a poisoned individual just as much as his supervisor, but something about the shorter man was... off.

When Blaire smiled at her, the corner's of his eyes creased, "The pleasure's all mine."

_Ugh. God._

Ambrose smiled back.

"I trust that Rick here took good care of you—however, for the time being, he has to get back to work," Blaire continued. "How about we figure out when we can get you in for a formal job interview on the way out." When he spoke, he phrased his wording as a statement, not a question. That factor alone was enough to tell Ambrose just what kind of a person she was dealing with. 

Trager, who had been leaning against the doorway, observing the short lived conversation with keen eyes, turned to Molly, and spoke in a tone that sounded purposefully intimate. "Looks like we'll have to finish our conversation another time."

"Looks like," she agreed. "Thanks for the coffee. Even if I didn't get to finish it."

"You're very welcome," Trager echoed. The same, smug grin twisted into his expression. "I'll see you around, buddy."

In a silent motion, Mr. Blaire led Ambrose out of Trager's office, and down the hall. Molly smiled and waved at Denise as they passed by her office, but the woman didn't notice as her head was buried in some extensive paperwork. When Blaire pressed the button that led to the lobby, it didn't take long for it to arrive, and Ambrose mentally sighed in relief. For a reason she couldn't pinpoint yet, Blaire's presence was even less tolerable than Trager's, in spite of the fact that she had only known the executive for a few minutes. 

"You two seem like you're good friends," Ambrose finally broke the silence, uncomfortable with how still the air felt. It hovered around her and tracked every breath she let out. 

Blaire nodded in agreement, arms crossed tight over his chest, which was puffed out. "Yeah, Rick is a stand up guy. Hard worker—but a terrible golfer."

The elevator dinged. Molly couldn't get out of there fast enough. "I won't tell him you said that," she pinched her mouth into a sour smile. "So, when can I come in to finish the rest of the interview?"

"Tomorrow morning." 

Ambrose nodded, an odd sensation bubbling in her stomach the longer she had to look at Blaire. 

_Get out, get out, get out now._

_Something isn't right._

"Good," he said firmly. "Be here at nine am. Until then—" Blaire stuck his palm out again, and when they shook hands this time, he entrapped his over hers, grasping her skin like he was trying to rip it off. It was clear to her that he knew what he was doing; that it was intentional. 

"See you in the morning," With a parting nod, Ambrose opened the gate and guided herself out. If Blaire would have offered to walk her all the way out, she would have said no, regardless of if it made her look like an unusual suspect or not.

The low murmurs from the employees felt like someone meticulously snapping their fingers in her ear. The sharp clacks from the security guard typing on the computer was like listening to someone grind their teeth. As if the atmosphere wasn't unsettling enough, the desire to flee was hot. _Burning_. 

When the back of her neck fell victim to the heat, Ambrose turned around ever so slightly, and Blaire still stood in front of the elevator, his eyes unwavering. He had barely moved a muscle. Molly smiled one more time, giving a small wave, but couldn't let her disguise falter even after she turned back around. A few of the employees were staring at her; some tried to hide it, but many did not. 

As she trudged down the stairs, the muscles in her legs twitched, overwhelmed with the need to collapse.

_You're okay. The hard part’s over. Just keep walking._

Ambrose reached into the pocket of her bag and dialed Lieutenant Martin's number. He picked up on the second ring. 

A shallow uneasiness lied between the lack of noise, words failing to thread together. Then finally, the Lieutenant said, "You ready for the next task, kiddo?"

Molly relaxed underneath the unnatural stillness, and replied, "Anything to get out of here."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: major dick alert. not dick as in s3x sc3ne, but dick as in "trager and blaire are shitty people" 
> 
> enjoy <333

The Lieutenant told Ambrose to meet him off of the main road and drive down the dirt path where the cluster of trees resided. Molly questioned whether or not it was a wise decision to meet so close to Mount Massive—but Martin had been doing this for years. He wouldn't put her at risk.

The half cracked driver's seat window and a quick cigarette was all it took to swing Molly's mood back around—not to mention, peeling herself from Trager and Blaire's presence. When she arrived at the dirt road, she flicked the rest of her cigarette out the window.

Ambrose pulled up next to a dead tree, eyeing the Lieutenant's car before stepping out of her own vehicle. "You're such a drama queen," she said. After slamming the door, she reached up and undid the first two buttons of her shirt. She grabbed the collar, and with a gentle shake of her wrist, fluffed it out. "Showing up in a black SUV with tinted windows and everything—it's like you want us to get caught."

"We'll only be here for a minute," he replied.

Lieutenant Martin's pale eyes always had a dull expression, a side effect of almost two decades of law enforcement, but today was different; there wasn't a sprinkle of enthusiasm. Molly hadn't noticed it until now, and assumed that she just hadn't been paying close enough attention when she saw him earlier. "Your partner is on his way," the Lieutenant finished.

"I'm sorry... partner?" Ambrose quirked one of her messy eyebrows. "What partner?"

"Malcolm Briggs. He's been a P.I. for a couple of years, he has some experience and insight I think would benefit you. Served as a detective at Lakewood for almost a decade," Lieutenant Martin paused upon seeing a condescending smile manifest onto Molly's mouth. She brought her gaze down and kicked at the dirt like a child. "Don't worry, it's still your case," he added. 

"Good."

Although her smile faded, the Lieutenant took note of how his pupil pressed her lips together, and he sighed inside. "He's just going to be helping you out," he clarified. 

"But I don't need help," she said. "You heard me in there—I killed it."

"Yes, you did 'kill it.' However, you need to be a little more careful. For example, don't flirt with Trager. It draws unwanted attention."

"I wasn't flirting, I was just being myself."

"Okay, well, don't do that."

The Lieutenant and Ambrose exchanged a look—Martin's much more tense than hers—then finally she held her hands up like she was surrendering. 

"Alright, fine. I'll take it easy."

"Good," Martin echoed her, flattening the front of his blazer as he spoke and succumbed to a faint smile. When he turned his head to glance out at the open road and saw Malcolm Briggs' vehicle approaching, he faced his pupil again, adding, "Oh, and Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"When you go to the interview tomorrow morning, uh..." He clicked his tongue, glanced away, then forced his eyes back on hers. "I think it would be wise to... let some truth bleed into 'Hayden,' okay?"

"Meaning?"

Martin held onto his words before letting them go, hoping that Molly didn't sense his reluctance. She did. "I know it may seem odd, I think you should mention the bipolar disorder."

At that point, Malcolm's car turned down the dirt road, but Ambrose paid no mind to it. Instead, she stood her ground, despite that his words felt like a tight pinch. There was a part of Lieutenant Martin that was still ashamed of her; it was clear in his expression when he got closer and closer to the forbidden 'b' word. He phrased it as if it was an American tragedy. Like the fucking Oklahoma bombing.

Molly didn't respond, but the way her fire sizzled out was enough.

"That way if they catch onto you, and you need to get out of there, there's a good excuse," Martin continued. "A valid excuse. It's not as if they're not going to believe you—it's an asylum. They're used to people going off of the rails."

 _If there's an emergency, I'll play off the sick mother story,_ Ambrose muttered to herself in her mind, biting the tip of her tongue.

Malcolm parked his car a couple feet ahead of them. Molly still hadn't said anything.

"Hey, I didn't mean it like..." Martin trailed off. "You were good at your job. Whenever you got bad, you always bounced back.”

The Lieutenant might as well have stripped her of her clothes and tossed her into a public place. No one was around but the two of them—and soon there would be three—but suddenly the people who meant most to her were there, and even those who meant nothing were there, smothering her. And they watched, and they judged; mom. Dad. The estranged half siblings. The childhood family friend, Dakota. The one coworker she had trusted, Wyatt. The kids from high school, the ex lovers, the ex friends. 

Molly's skin was tight; cut and torn and pulled in deliberate directions, yanking and yanking. Suffocating her ribs. She tried to swallow, but it got caught in the middle of her throat. 

The sound of the car door closing jolted Ambrose, and when her eyes focused, she saw a tall man climb out of the driver's seat. Before she collected herself, she could have sworn that she had seen her 'new partner' somewhere before—then she realized he looked exactly like Dakota. Her dad's best friend. Someone who acted more like a father to her than actual blood. Someone who taught her that it's okay to not be happy all the time, it's okay to not know what you want to do, not know who you are, or what you want.

"Am I interrupting?” Malcolm asked, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his trench coat. Considering that the Colorado heat was still in the high seventies, and she herself felt wet creases underneath her arms, she thought it was weird he was wearing it. "You two seem like you're in the middle of something."

Although Malcolm's appearance resembled Dakota, his voice did not. He spoke like he had something caught in the back of his teeth. 

"He's just rambling as usual," Ambrose said. "You must be Briggs."

"And you must be Ambrose. I've heard a lot about you."

“Oh, that’s never good,” Molly laughed weakly, neglecting to acknowledge how the Lieutenant bent his neck forward in an attempt to hide from Malcolm's glance. “Well, it's nice to meet you—even if I didn't know I was meeting you until a minute ago."

Malcolm responded with a half hearted chuckle, cautious of offending Lieutenant Martin. "I've had a few run-ins with Murkoff myself. I'm glad I finally have an excuse to weasel my way back in."

"Oh, really?" Molly asked. "In that case, this should be fun."

Ambrose looked at the Lieutenant, who had failed to speak up during the duration of the short lived conversation. Although Martin grinned when he glanced at her, she couldn't help but notice the same, familiar dull expression in his eyes.

  
  


Reviewing the logistics with Malcolm was an adventure in itself. Trying to find information on Rick Trager that the records didn't already show was like preparing a new dish, only to realize you were missing the essential ingredients. Both of them had been working for hours, and they didn't discover any new information—other than the fact that Trager had never been married, wasn't very active on social media, as far as details of his personal life went, and other technicalities that weren't useful. 

As informal as it was, Ambrose sat on the chesterfield sofa in Malcolm's office, sprawled out as if she had to cover every inch, with a borrowed laptop on one side, a notebook full of tedious scribblings on the other, ballpoint pen clenched in between her teeth. His office looked like the kind of offices you see in the detective movies, and the ambience of the space made it a little easier to focus, with the exception of how the brown leather squeaked whenever she shifted her position.

"I think I found something," Malcolm said suddenly. 

If it were possible, Ambrose's ears would have perked up. "Really?"

"Yeah—a parking ticket from two years ago." Initially, she wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but then he smiled.

Molly emitted a fake laugh, then turned her eyes back down to the computer screen.

It didn't take long for Ambrose and Briggs to bond. The work divided equally between them, they bounced ideas and potential theories off of each other. When he felt that a break was in order, he left to grab them a coffee, and although Molly knew that the additional caffeine wouldn't sit right with her body, she consumed it anyway.

Yeah—he was a lot like Dakota for sure.

After getting up and grabbing her half empty coffee cup off of Malcolm's desk, Molly sat down on the sofa, shooting a nasty glance at the fabric as it squeaked. Her brain felt like jelly that had sat on the shelf for too long, so she had taken a brief break from her work. She opened a new window on the laptop and was looking at the streetview of Trager's house, zooming in and inspecting it for potential pieces to the puzzle.

You could tell he had money. There was a long, wide cement road that led to the single story house, fresh green grass sprouting on both sides. Painted a subtle cream color, black roof, double doors, a fountain. Of course he had a fountain. And a large window that looked into what she assumed was the living room, the curtains drawn—that would be useful.

Her eyes still glued to the screen, she said, "You know they have these new fancy cameras for your front door that start recording when motion is sensed? Maybe he has one of those, since he's a yuppie and all. I know we'll be watching from the car on our stakeouts, but if it's aimed at a certain angle he'll be able to see us."

" _Your_ stakeouts," he corrected.

She nodded, still not looking at him. She brought a hand up to her mouth, nervously playing with her lower lip. The extra caffeine really wasn't a good idea. "Right."

"But good catch. That's something we need to look out for."

"And if I get caught, I should just draw back, right? Or leave and come back when he's gone?"

"Precisely."

Finally, Molly looked up from the screen, chugging the rest of the cold coffee and setting it on the floor. With her left hand, she grabbed the pen off of the notebook and started to jot down names of people they could interview before it slipped her mind again, already jumping three steps ahead. With her right hand, she opened up the search engine and started typing in the names of people in an attempt to get their contact information. A task she swore she had taken care of earlier. 

Malcolm asked a question, but Molly didn't hear. She asked him to repeat it.

"Are you ambidextrous?"

"Uh huh." Molly hardly acknowledged how impressive the skill was, and instead glanced at the computer in front of Malcolm, as sounds from the bug that she planted echoed from the speaker. They had been listening to it ever since they got here, keeping it at a low volume. There was a faint sound of a door closing, and two male voices. Blaire and Trager. 

Finally. All they had heard within the past hours was Trager talking to himself, which got old. Really fast. Ironically enough, Molly knew that she did the exact same thing, and it was probably just as annoying. 

_"How about a drink, buddy? It's been a long, hard day,"_ Trager said to Blaire.

 _"You're telling me,"_ Blaire replied.

At that point, Molly got up from the sofa, almost knocking over the empty coffee cup in the process. Leaning over the desk with her palms planted firmly in front of her, she locked her eyes onto the screen and watched as the little spikes of volume flashed up and down in sync with their voices. Malcolm and her were both dead silent. 

For a couple of minutes, all the two men did was complain about the day. There was the sound of a desk drawer being pulled out, a bottle of alcohol being opened, with Blaire adding _'A bold move to do in front of your supervisor'_ and Molly hated it, but she agreed with him. They talked about planning projects, paperwork, and other things that made Ambrose quickly lose interest. 

Then it graciously peaked.

 _"How about that girl today?"_ Blaire said. _"What was her name? Hannah?"_

 _"Hayden,"_ Trager corrected, and although she couldn't see his expression, the subtle offense reflected in his voice.

 _"What did you think of her anyway? She seemed like a bitch, if you ask me. Did you see the way she carried herself?"_ Blaire scoffed. _"I'm telling you, we don't need that kind of attitude, especially from a woman, for our company. She thinks she's hot shit."_

Ambrose's grip tightened, fingers digging into the desk. The burning pit at the bottom of her stomach made her feel sick, like she was going to throw up the coffee remains all over the keyboard. 

Trager laughed, _"Well, you're right about the hot part."_

When Blaire laughed, too, it wasn't out of entertainment, or agreement. It was a mocking laugh. She could imagine his beady eyes crinkling up as he did. _"Yeah, I don't think so. See, that's part of the problem: if the personality_ and _looks are bad, it's a no win situation."_

"Jesus," Molly muttered under her breath. When Malcolm looked at her out of concern, she laughed it off and shook her head, aiming her gaze back at her hands. 

_Don't talk. Just listen._

_"Well... to each their own,"_ There was a pause as Trager spoke, then a faint gulp of him taking a sip of his drink. It was a small sip. It must have been whiskey or something of the like. Maybe vodka. Vodka sounded very, very good right now. _"That just means you're leaving her to me. It's not as fun, but, hey, I'll still take her."_

 _"Oh, please,"_ Blaire said. _"Are you kidding me? She is not going to let you fuck her."_

 _At least he's right about one thing,_ Molly thought. 

_"You weren't here, Jer. You didn't see it."_

_"See what?"_

_"How she was looking at me. How she spoke to me. Hell, even how she walked towards me. She was just one second from letting me bend her over this desk, and she was not trying to hide it."_

_"Well then, by all means, have at it, Rick,"_ Blaire laughed, a sick laugh. _"It's not like anyone else here is going to steal her from you."_

Malcolm said something to Ambrose, but she didn't hear him. It wasn't very easy to concentrate when she was anticipating what Trager would say next. Molly glanced up at him, and waited until he repeated himself: "Sorry you have to listen to this."

She shrugged. "They're just words. They don't mean anything."

But there was a constant kick at her throat, an immense need to cry. She cried often—but this was different. This was a wound that hadn't been picked at in awhile; even though her coworkers used to sexually harass her, it was never this... graphic in description. The coworkers were more subtle about it, which almost felt worse. Most of the time they got off enough on mocking her morals and political beliefs. Sometimes when they were drunk on enough beers during a night out, they combined the two aspersions. 

She hadn't caught onto what Trager had said, and only started to pay attention while he was in the middle of a sentence.

_"... trust me, you'll see it, Jer. I bet she's going to make plenty of excuses to come see me—I gave her some already."_

_"Oh, really?"_

_"She's a sporty girl. I offered to teach her how to golf."_

Hearing him talk about her made her mouth feel watery, and every time she swallowed it, the acid in her stomach bubbled. She couldn't throw up in front of Malcolm, there was no way. He trusted her, he liked her, but she was not going to let herself vomit in his presence. 

"Hey, will you update me on what else they say?" Molly asked, straightening her back. "I gotta run to the bathroom real quick."

Malcolm nodded and agreed, watching her carefully as she walked out. He could tell she was upset—someone as ambitious and excitable as her wouldn't pass up an opportunity to listen to every word. 

The bathroom was just down the hall, and once she was out of Malcolm's sight, Ambrose sprinted to the door. She didn't make it to the toilets, there wasn't enough time, and threw herself at the nearest sink, gagging on the stinging bile that flung itself from her throat. As she paused to take a breath, the sickness hit her again, and she choked after accidentally sucking the burning liquid back down. 

She coughed quietly enough so that the sound wouldn't echo, even knowing that Malcolm probably heard the gagging noises anyway. 

_It’s all the coffee. Just the coffee._

It didn't make sense. But it also didn't matter.

Her work day was almost over; she just had to walk it off. When she got home, she would take a long, warm shower and bury herself into her bed, but for now, she had to finish her job. 

The water from the tap tasted dirty, too hot, and she spit it out with a grimace after removing the waste from her mouth. She turned around, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her button up that was rolled up to her elbows.

Time to get back to work.


End file.
